


Ashes, Ashes

by IdleLeaves



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blood and Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22916743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: After the failed Apocalypse, Crowley is attacked by demons from Hell. Aziraphale deals with it in his own way.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 241
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Ashes, Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=94056#cmt94056) prompt on the Good Omens kink meme.
> 
> Thanks so much to Pho for beta!

By the time the old clock on the wall strikes nine, Aziraphale has begun to worry. _Foolish_ , he tells himself firmly as he crosses his arms and watches late autumn rain slide down the bookshop windows. It's two hours past the time they were supposed to meet, but there's no reservation to keep tonight, and Crowley is hardly known for being punctual.

Still, Aziraphale picks up his phone and rings Crowley's flat, then his mobile. No answer. He picks up the book he'd started just that afternoon and sits on the sofa to wait. The shop's a bit chilly so he pulls a blanket across his lap, removing his shoes and tucking his feet up under it.

The next time Aziraphale looks up, the clock is chiming the half-hour and he's certain he's read this last page four times without absorbing a word. He backtracks to a page he remembers and starts over, with no luck. Aziraphale sets the book down and wanders the shelves for a while, aiming to choose something new to pass the time.

The second book turns out to be no more distraction than the first. Aziraphale makes himself a cup of tea and promptly forgets about it, leaving it cooling on his desk as he goes about reorganising a shelf he really should have done a month ago.

It's not until close to midnight that he rings Crowley's mobile again. Still no answer. For some reason he can't put words to, there's something unsettling starting to pull at the edges of Aziraphale's consciousness, and in the pit of his stomach a cold feeling settles that has nothing to do with being stood up. 

A final call to Crowley's flat and his mobile both go unanswered, and Aziraphale gives in to his uneasiness. He leaves the shop without so much as an umbrella, locks up with a gesture, and hails a cab to take him to Mayfair. 

As he crosses the lobby of Crowley's building and steps into the lift, he feels it - a lingering but quickly fading trace of infernal energy. It's not Crowley's. Aziraphale's heartbeat quickens in his chest.

The lift opens. At the end of the hall, the door to Crowley's flat is slightly ajar.

Something is wrong.

Aziraphale takes two steps into the flat and freezes. Black feathers are scattered at his feet, and the rust-dark splotches on the tile and walls can only be one thing: blood. Aziraphale closes the door behind him, swiftly and silently, warding it against both entry and exit, and reminds himself to breathe.

Aziraphale follows a trail of blood drops leading down the hall. Just beyond Crowley's open bedroom door, a black wing stretches across the floor, its carpus bent at an unnatural angle. "Crowley?" Aziraphale says, voice high and tight, then, " _Crowley_ , my God," as he rounds the corner and falls to his knees.

Crowley's wing covers him from shoulder to thigh; what exposed skin Aziraphale can see through the rips in Crowley's clothing is battered and bloody, and hauntingly pale underneath. He holds a trembling hand up to Crowley's face, and feels the barely-there warmth of a shallow breath.

At the least - at the absolute least - he's still alive, but Aziraphale feels no relief. He can't tell, yet, how deep the damage goes, and that disturbs him at least as much as the injuries he can already see. Crowley's broken wing covers the rest, and Aziraphale fears what he might find when he moves it.

He can't move it, however, in its current state. Aziraphale steadies himself, then reaches out his hands. There's a quiet, horrible scraping as the bone starts to realign; Aziraphale can only take short, harsh breaths as a sharp, sizzling pain begins in his fingertips, spiking up his arms and across his shoulders to where his wings are waiting on another plane.

As Aziraphale pulls back, hands burning but Crowley's wing now intact, Crowley makes a soft, choked noise and begins to wake. His wings pull in next to his body, then disappear into the ether with a flutter and the brief scent of fire. Aziraphale moves closer, kneeling beside him. As gently as he can, he lays a hand on Crowley's shoulder.

Crowley slaps it away. He struggles to sit up and push himself away from Aziraphale, hands held defensively in front of his face. His eyes are wide but unfocused, gold from corner to corner and pupils as black as Aziraphale has ever seen them.

Aziraphale speaks to him softly, like he might to a wounded animal. "Crowley," he says, over and over. "Crowley, it's me."

Crowley stills, suddenly, sweat beading on his face. His pupils contract, and he stares at Aziraphale for several long seconds before sagging forward, his forehead landing against Aziraphale's shoulder. Aziraphale slides a hand into his hair and another, carefully, around his back, and holds him there.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Aziraphale asks, somehow able to speak calmly, without alarm. When no response is forthcoming - just Crowley's shallow, ragged breathing - Aziraphale continues with, "Please talk to me."

"Had a run in," Crowley admits, though Aziraphale can barely hear him, "with Downstairs."

It's been weeks - no, months - since any word from either of their former sides, and Aziraphale has only just learned to stop looking over his shoulder when Crowley grabs his hand, or kisses him outside the safety of the bookshop.

"S'all right," Crowley says, like he can feel Aziraphale's distress. "Not... official business, I don't think. Hurts, though."

His last admission can't be anything but an understatement. As Crowley raises his head and tries to sit up, Aziraphale has to fight the urge to tighten his grip, to keep him close.

Crowley hisses and spreads the fingers of one hand over his ribcage. "Broken," he grits out. "At least one. Maybe two."

Aziraphale shifts, wrapping an arm around Crowley and holding him against his side as tight as he dares. "Show me," he says, fingers grazing Crowley's chest, and readies himself for the pain. Crowley guides his hand, and Aziraphale holds his breath as the burn of divine-on-infernal healing arcs up through his ribs.

It's over in seconds, this time. No bones to force into realignment - just a pair, cracked, to knit back together. "Let's get you off the floor," Aziraphale says, hands still tingling.

He doesn't wait for Crowley to move; he slips an arm around his back and another under his knees and picks him up, transferring him to the bed a few feet away. The only sound Crowley makes is a muted groan when his back hits the mattress.

"I need to know who did this," Aziraphale says as he sits on the edge of the bed. "Please."

Crowley closes his eyes. "It's not important."

Aziraphale wants to push - wants to ask his question over and over until he has each and every name; instead, he sighs, and allows Crowley his silence for now. There are more important things to worry about. Aziraphale brushes sweat-dampened hair off Crowley's forehead, then lowers his hand to the top button of Crowley's shirt.

"May I?" he asks.

Crowley answers with a slight shake of his head. "I'll do it," he says, and manages to unbutton his shirt all the way down, exposing bruises, cuts, and coagulated blood. Underneath it all, he's still too pale; his face, most of all, near-colourless under a black eye and split lip. Long scratches mar one side of his face from nose to hairline.

A spark of divine fury ignites in Aziraphale's chest. He clamps down on it as best he can; there will be time, later, for anger.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, and lays his hands on Crowley's sternum. The pain is immediate; it flares in his palms and burns its way along every nerve, across his torso and through his extremities, until Aziraphale is dizzy and trembling. He can feel it, intensely, as internal injuries heal, bruises recede, lacerations stitch themselves back together, and all he can do is take deep, gulping breaths and pray - to whom, he doesn't know - for the strength to finish.

"Angel," Crowley says, breaking through Aziraphale's concentration. He covers Aziraphale's hands with his own and tries, without success, to yank them away. "Aziraphale, _stop_."

Aziraphale pulls back. His hands stay in midair as he waits for the room to stop spinning, for the ringing in his ears to subside.

"I won't," Crowley pants, "I won't have you making yourself ill."

"Crowley -" Aziraphale starts.

"No," says Crowley, and he sounds stronger already. The bruises on his face have healed; his lip is intact, and the scratches on his face are nothing more than dull red marks that should fade in a day or two. Crowley rolls onto his side and reaches for one of Aziraphale's hands, holding it tightly as he stares out the door to where blood still stains the floor.

"I didn't even recognise them," Crowley says. "Not all of them."

"Give me their names."

"Aziraphale."

"Please."

Crowley relents, and Aziraphale commits the names to memory.

"Perhaps you should rest," Aziraphale says.

Crowley doesn't argue, and rises - slowly - from the bed to fetch his pajamas. He doesn't need Aziraphale's help to change out of his torn clothing, but Aziraphale stays close, regardless. He knows Crowley is still aching by the careful way he moves, a bone-deep ache that's not likely to fade for several hours, at least. There's a limit to Aziraphale's miracles, even where Crowley is concerned.

And the night isn't over quite yet.

As Crowley gets himself back into bed and under blankets, turning off the lamp with the switch rather than a snap, Aziraphale finds himself hovering. He can't help it - the image of Crowley on the floor, beaten and broken-winged, won't leave him alone.

"Stay," says Crowley.

"All right," says Aziraphale, like leaving Crowley's flat is even an option, anywhere in his mind, at the moment.

Without another word, Aziraphale extends a hand toward Crowley, waiting for Crowley's nod before brushing his hand across his forehead. Blue-white energy pulses at Aziraphale's fingertips, and Crowley's eyes close. He'll sleep, now, through the night and well into the next day.

Aziraphale closes the bedroom door quietly behind him, and soundproofs the room with a snap. He lays a hand against the door, warding it against intrusion, then leaves Crowley to his rest.

At the end of the hall, neatly stacked on one corner of Crowley's desk are chalk, candles, and a book from Aziraphale's private collection. None of it had been there more than a few minutes ago. Aziraphale hasn't so much as handled the book in as long as he can remember, and he's certainly never used it for its intended purpose.

The spine creaks as he opens it. No index, but he finds what he's looking for easily enough. Aziraphale miracles the bloodstains off the floor and walls, picks up the chalk, and begins to draw.

The circle, first, then the pentagram within it. The chalk heats up in Aziraphale's hands, the marks on the floor going from white to red with every line he connects. He wishes, for the first time and only briefly, that he could read the language of Hell; all he can do, instead, is copy the sigils on the page before him as best he can. The names - only two - he writes in his own tongue, and hopes it's enough.

Five lit candles, one for each point of the pentagram, and the sigils within the circle sputter and flame.

Aziraphale hesitates. He glances down the hall to Crowley's closed bedroom door, and reminds himself why he must do this. He removes his jacket and folds it neatly onto Crowley's desk, then double-checks the wards on the front door, letting the bonds wash over the outer walls of the entire flat.

Finally, he clears his throat and begins to read. The words sear his tongue as he speaks them - but thick curls of smoke are rising from within the pentagram, coalescing slowly into two ragged demons.

Aziraphale lets his wings manifest, and waits.

"What the fuck?" says the shorter of the two, as soon as he's materialised enough to speak. He realises in an instant that he's bound, kept mostly motionless by the sigils under his feet. "You're an - " he starts. His eyes dart around the room; Aziraphale can see the recognition in them, when it hits. "Angels can't just _summon demons_."

"Clearly," says Aziraphale, "we can."

"Is your boyfriend ready for another round, then?" the second demon taunts. "Thought we'd done enough the first time, but if not..." He trails off, and waits for a reaction from Aziraphale that doesn't come. Aziraphale watches him, calm and silent, until the demon's smirk begins to fade.

"What do you want?" the demon asks.

Aziraphale makes a wordless gesture, and a golden-handled sword appears in his hand. It's not his own - it's longer, more ornate, and not flaming in the least - but it'll do. He reaches out with a foot and smudges the edge of the circle, breaking it open even as the pentagram continues to burn.

Aziraphale's sword plunges through the first demon's heart before he can take a single step.

Blood drips from his blade as Aziraphale yanks it free. The body hits the ground with a thud, and the remaining demon turns on his heel and bolts the few strides to the front door. He struggles with the latch before turning back, pulling a knife out of the air and flinging it toward Aziraphale. He dodges it with nothing more than a quick sidestep, and when the second one comes sailing toward him Aziraphale knocks it out of the air with the flat of his sword.

The demon darts to the side, running back through the destroyed circle and leaving Aziraphale a few steps behind as he skirts the edges of the flames. Aziraphale deflects a third knife, sending it clattering to the floor, and a fourth flies past his ear as the demon snaps his fingers again and again.

He can't miracle himself away. Aziraphale saw to that.

The next knife catches the fabric of his shirt and slices the skin underneath. Blood runs down his arm and splatters in droplets on the floor.

Aziraphale has had enough of this. He pushes forward and corners the demon amongst Crowley's plants, his back against the glass that should have been able to shatter. Before the demon can conjure another knife, the point of Aziraphale's sword is against his throat.

"What are you waiting for?" says the demon. "Just _do it_ , already."

"No," Aziraphale says. He continues to hold the sword unnaturally still, pressed just below the demon's chin. "Here's what's going to happen, instead: I'm going to let you go. You're going to go back to Hell, find your discorporated friend and whomever else participated in this... nastiness... and you're going to tell them what will happen if they try this again. Are we understood?"

The demon nods as much as he's able with the blade at his neck. "Understood," he chokes out.

Aziraphale abruptly drops the wards and soundproofing on the flat, but takes a few seconds longer to lower his sword just enough to let the demon go. He disappears in a snap, but Aziraphale doesn't move for several long minutes - waiting, just in case.

Eventually, he exhales a long, deep sigh and sends his sword back where it came from. He heals the laceration on his arm and miracles away the blood on his shirt and on the floor. At least he'd remembered to remove his jacket - this time, there'd be no asking Crowley for help with the stains.

Aziraphale rights a plant that had gotten knocked over in the skirmish, examining it for damage and finding none. It takes a series of small miracles, then, to banish the first demon's body - already turning to dust - and the broken, still-smoking circle. Aziraphale sends the summoning book back to his shop, and makes the chalk and candles disappear as well.

He finds, at the end, that he's really rather tired. He half-stumbles down the hall to Crowley's bedroom, removes his waistcoat and shoes, and falls into bed still mostly clothed. Crowley doesn't so much as twitch.

* * *

Aziraphale wakes with the sun on his face. During the night he'd shifted, and lies, now, with his head on Crowley's shoulder and an arm thrown over his waist. Aziraphale stretches carefully, determined to let Crowley sleep as long as he needs to.

Crowley, however, is already awake. "Since when do you sleep past lunch?" he asks. "It's nearly two."

"How are you feeling?" Aziraphale asks, reaching for Crowley's hand under the blankets and giving it a squeeze before moving away and sitting up.

"All right, I suppose," Crowley says, then his brow furrows as he looks at Aziraphale. "You have blood on your face," he says, touching Aziraphale's left cheek with the pads of his fingers. Aziraphale feels the fleeting heat of a minor miracle.

"Must be yours," Aziraphale says. "From last night." He hopes the smile he offers Crowley is convincing.

"Must be," Crowley echoes. He rolls onto his side and closes his eyes. "Five more minutes?"

"Ten, if you like," Aziraphale says, and breathes a sigh of relief.


End file.
